Atticus was definitely drunk. He was being far too touchy-feely than was usual and, despite touch being Basil’s primary form of showing affection, he was not. having it. Ripping his arm rather too dramatically away from his brother than could be considered at all appropriate for polite society, Basil felt his face heat from instant embarrassment as well as rage. They were bloody lucky nobody seemed to be paying them much mind right about now and that it was dark out. Still, it was probably better to pull off to the side for the interim before things got exponentially more heated. Basil stood even as Atticus sat and pulled in a deep breath. He crossed his arms grouchily over his chest, determined not to have this conversation at all but still trying to seem casual about it to anyone from afar. “Fine,” he hissed. “What aren’t you telling me.”
The demand was simple, clear, concise. Atticus would be a bloody fool not to know exactly what it was Basil was referencing, but as neither of them wanted to explicitly bring up Lissington, he felt it was safer to be evasive. Bringing up Lissing, especially after what had transpired this week and the fact that he was literally inside Foxwood House back in Wellingtonshire at this very moment, made Basil sure this was not the time and place to bring him up. He’d had a few drinks of his own and letting that little factoid slip would almost certainly ruin what had been a mostly pleasant afternoon. (And… likely… cause an astronomical scene neither of them would be able to escape for years to come.)
Atticus Foxwood & THIS IS BASIL'S 300TH POST!